


Inner Workings

by FrostedFlame (PinkOrchid)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-12-05 03:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11569440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkOrchid/pseuds/FrostedFlame
Summary: Just what goes on when Sherlock closes his eyes and descends into his 'mind palace', anyway?This is a story about John learning more about the inner workings of Sherlock's mind..





	1. What the..?

Two months into his acquaintance with the mad genius that was Sherlock Holmes, John felt that he had already seen the worst his flatmate could throw at him. Sure, the man himself remained a frustratingly obscure mystery. Who could tell what really went on in that head of his? But having survived noxious chemicals, 3am explosions, random but thankfully non-lethal poisonings, not to mention miscellaneous body parts mixed in with the frozen peas, he was sure that nothing about his living arrangements could surprise him any more.

He should have known. When you live with Sherlock Holmes, life is endlessly new. 

**

John nudged the door closed behind him, toeing off his shoes and tossing his jacket on the hook. He was scrutinizing the menu he'd plucked from the hall table. Yes, maybe he _would_ try that new takeaway. Sherlock would have known if it was any good just from the slant of the font or the placement of the crinkles on the fold. But Sherlock was on a case, which meant 'no eating, it slows me down, John' and 'just transport, John _'._ No, Sherlock would not be back for hours, according to the text he'd sent. So John - mere mortal that he was - would have to simply try-and-see.

Rounding the corner into the sitting room, John stopped short. all thoughts of dinner vanishing fast.  

Instead of being out on a case, Sherlock was sprawled -  _that angle can't be comfortable -_ on his leather armchair, seemingly dead to the world. Those astonishingly long legs ( _lanky git_ ) rested on the ground in front of him, crossed at the ankle. The whole pose accentuated the taut line of the consulting detective's body. John couldn't help but follow the long lean outline with his eyes. Sherlock's sleeves were rolled to the elbow, flashing pale skin and sinew, and the top two buttons of that posh shirt remained artfully undone. The detective's pale, unnerving eyes were closed, head resting on the back of the chair, and John could see the familiar twitchy movement of Sherlock's eyeballs behind his closed lids. The sight was familiar to John, it spoke of home and peace and cases solved. He smiled, indulgently, as he watched his flatmate from the doorway. He noticed the fingertips of one hand resting on the notch of his ( _stupidly plump_ ) lips. It was almost,  _almost_ , classic Sherlock Holmes thinking pose. His 'don't disturb me, I'm in my Mind Palace', pose. Except. Except - 

Except normally in Mind-Palace-thinking mode, there were two hands, not one, steepled at nose or chin. 

And - usually there was less - less well, _bulging_  going on inside those expensively cut trousers! John stood there, stunned. It felt rather like being hit by a bus (and yes, there had been that one time in Clapham..) But more to the point, Sherlock, Mr 'body-as-transport',  was - he was - no he couldn't be - _yes, yes he was!_ One long arm was angled down his body. And one very large hand was - John's mind cut out. He couldn't be seeing this. He should move, shouldn't he? Not stand here and - Oh Lord, the hand wasn't just _cupping_ the bulge anymore- no, that, right there! That was a definite _press_.

John gulped as Sherlock's hips gave one long, sinuous push into the waiting hollow of his hand. He knew it was wrong to keep watching his flatmate,  _knew it_ , but - it was as if he was rooted to the spot. His mouth opened and closed several times, uselessly. He could feel pearls of sweat start to form at his temple, aware that his own trousers were becoming uncomfortably tight in the groin.  _This was so wrong!_

And then Sherlock  _moaned,_ a long low breathy sound, almost too low to hear, snapping whatever spell had been holding John in place. He turned and almost tripped over his feet in his haste to scramble up the stairs.

** 

 And really, that should have been that. Yes, it was a shock to find his flatmate - well, you couldn't call it masturbating, not really - but perhaps having the Sherlockian equivalent of a wet dream? But it was another matter entirely to have it happen in the middle of the sitting room at half past four in the afternoon. It was even more of a shock to realise that said flatmate was even  _capable_ of being aroused in the first place. Capable of - to put it bluntly - getting off. He seemed to sit in disdainful judgement over any and all physical 'urges'. This just wasn't something John thought the man even  _did._ Except - he didn't exactly do anything, did he? Not really. Or at least not consciously. John couldn't be sure how aware of his surroundings Sherlock was during his trips to his Mind Palace, but there's no way he wouldn't have known John was there if he'd been, well, awake. And the few times in the past that John had tried to interact with Sherlock while the man was deep in thought had been a failure. He'd likely have had as much success talking to the wall. Or the skull. 

Up in the sanctuary of his room several things now crossed John Watson's mind. He was hard. Very hard. _Bit not good,_ he chided mentally. Even worse, he was by now extremely hungry. And it was nowhere near bedtime yet. Which meant he was going to have to go back downstairs. And Sherlock would _know._ He always  _knew._

John groaned. This was all kinds of fucked up. 

With the grim determination of a soldier heading into battle, John Watson squared his shoulders, adjusted his trousers, and marched himself down the stairs. 


	2. Let's not mention the elephant

To John's surprise (and relief), when he reached the sitting room, it was devoid of any trace of consulting detective. The Belstaff was conspicuously absent from its hook, meaning Sherlock had left the flat. Who knew when he'd be back. 

John pushed down the niggling sense of guilt - he really hadn't done anything wrong here. It's not as if it was  _his_ fault that he'd walked in on his flatmate at rather an awkward moment. He wondered if Sherlock realised just what he'd witnessed, if that was the reason he'd done a disappearing act? Or if he was oblivious after the fact. One thing, he knew that Sherlock would have seen his shoes and jacket, so he would have known that John was home. And hiding in his room. Which wasn't usual at this hour, even in 221b. 

John groaned. The odds were not in his favour. But he couldn't second guess his resident genius, not even on a good day. So he'd just have to wait, wouldn't he? 

Waiting was  _awful_. 

Several hours, an uninspiring cheese-on-toast, and some truly bad television later, he decided it was time for bed (for real this time). He'd deal with Sherlock in the morning.

Except - even in bed, he found he was somehow  _waiting_. And it was still as awful as before. Sighing and thumping his pillow, he did his best to switch off the nagging doubts and go to sleep.

**

In the end, Sherlock didn't come home that morning, or the rest of the day. Lestrade texted John at lunchtime looking for a CDA (Greg's code for 'consulting detective assist'). John wondered briefly how this was his life now, how did he get to have a special code with the Met? One that meant 'for God's sake come and stop him from being such an ass before somebody punches the git'. Still - he wouldn't refuse to come. He never did. What that said about him, he'd rather not stop to consider.

And so they were off in their usual whirlwind dance with one of the more interesting criminals that London had to offer. If nothing else it pushed the question of 'did he know or not?' right out of John's mind and things went right back to normal - well, normal for John-and-Sherlock, that is.

The case took almost a full week to culminate in a dramatic confrontation with said criminal, allowing John to do his 'thing' and disarm the mad bastard in a very impressive - ahem, proficient - way. When he looked up to check on Sherlock he thought he saw a flicker of something strange in his expression, but it was so fleeting he couldn't place it. An instant later, the man had swirled around and was stalking back towards the main street, the flock of oncoming police officers parting before him like water. 

**

When John got outside he realised Sherlock had gone without him. _Of course he had_. John sighed and trudged towards the main road up ahead, hoping to catch a taxi as he went. At least it wasn't raining.

He finally caught one about one third of the way home. Needless to say the walk did nothing to put John in a better mood. He _hated_ being left behind. He also resented paying a second taxi to do the exact same route - something about it offended his oh-so-frugal soul. All of which lead to him paying the driver in something of a huff, before racing up the stairs and barging into the flat with a belligerent air.

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes as John barreled his way inside - except that his eyes were closed. 

"Thanks a bloody lot for waiting for me," the sarcasm was so sharp it could kill. 

"Mind Palace, John," Sherlock retorted in a bored sing-song, as if that was all that needed to be said.

"No, Sherlock. I'm not _that_ thick. Think I can recognise a trip to the Mind Palace when I see one! Besides - you're talking to me. If you were really in Mind Palace, you wouldn't have replied."

"Oh for God's _sake_ ," Sherlock said, opening his eyes to glare at his offendingly obtuse flatmate. "How can I get there at all if you don't stop this nattering and clattering and, and _talking_ at me all the time. Do go away and let me be!"

 John gasped.  _Well if it was like that, then, the gloves could jolly well come off._

"Well I'm surprised you're going to do that in here, while I'm about. After last time, I mean! Shouldn't you just - I dunno - go to your room?"

Sherlock jerked up as if propelled by a lever. His scowl was almost frightening. Almost. John had witnessed enough of his flatmate's glares, stares and grimaces for them to have somewhat lost their edge. He half wondered if Sherlock was going to deny what had happened last week, if he would go with the 'what the hell do you mean?' line of defense. But no, it seemed righteous indignation was the weapon of the day. 

"I didn't do it on purpose," he hissed. "It's not like I can  _control_ it. I didn't  _ask_ for it to happen!"

"Oh, so you do remember then! I did wonder."

He was met with a sullen wall of silence. Ah. Wounded Detective pout number 5. 

"Oh come on, Sherlock, it's fine. It's all fine. Just - maybe not in the sitting room next time, eh?"

Sherlock's flounce as he jumped from the sofa was truly impressive. As was the rather loud bang of his bedroom door as it closed. 

 _That went well._ John thought.  _Considering._

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Things quickly went back to normal. Or nearly normal. Apart from the occasional blush that graced the detective's high cheekbones when certain topics arose Things to do with sex and romance. Things that would normally have been ignored or treated with eye-rolling disdain. Now such things caused Sherlock to avoid John's eye and bring out 'frosty Detective number 3' with snark on the side. John did his best to remain impassive, but he couldn't help being secretly a little charmed. The aloof detective wasn't so untouchable as he would like people to believe, after all. 

It had been so long since John witnessed Sherlock entering Mind Palace that he almost began to miss the slots of peace and quiet they formerly used to bring. John wondered sometimes if Sherlock was abstaining entirely, or if he was timing his 'excursions' to coincide with John's schedule at the clinic. Now that he'd had time to think about it, he regretted what he had said to Sherlock. If this was Sherlock's sole outlet for sexual energy - and let's face it, there was precious little evidence of any dating going on - it seemed.. wrong somehow to have taken it away. He was sad to think that his hasty words might have shamed the great detective, made him self conscious in a way he hadn't been before.

\--

John came awake with a start, already covered in sweat, heart racing.  _Not again,_ he thought. The nightmare was already curling away at the edges of his consciousness, he couldn't remember the details. But he knew better than to try to sleep again that night. The terror and heartache was there, waiting, just past the borders of sleep. He pushed off the duvet and padded barefoot across the floor, hands shaking but managing to keep almost silent in his wish to not wake his flatmate. God forbid Sherlock woke up - it had been four days since he last deigned to sleep. And - well, John was always self-conscious about people witnessing his nightmares, or the aftermath at least. He'd much rather deal with it quietly and alone. 

But as he rounded the corner into the living area, he realised with a start that Sherlock was no longer in his room. He was stretched on the sofa. Asleep. Maybe. John tiptoed into the kitchen. He'd get a glass of water and retreat. He really didn't want to deal with an inquisitive Sherlock at arse O'Clock.

He filled the glass and had just taken a tentative sip when he heard a sudden intake of breath from the reclining form. Given the state of his nerves, the quiet sound jolted him more than he'd like to admit. He turned to check, but Sherlock looked to be still asleep. Time to beat a retreat, maybe. John put down the glass and moved quietly towards the stairs.  _There. A definite moan._ He froze. _Oh no. Not again. He really shouldn't - it was wrong - he_ \- he turned his head towards the sofa. Curiosity, or this - this fascination that he didn't quite understand - won out. John licked his lips, throat dry despite the water he'd just had. Slowly, so slowly, the form on the sofa began to  _undulate._ John almost forgot how to breathe. He couldn't have moved if the building had blown up (again). The movements were sinuous and  _achingly_ erotic, and soon became accompanied by a rhythmic grunting sound - a soft 'hunh, hunh, hunh'.  _Oh God,_ he thought,  _if he wakes up and sees me I'm done for._ But oh, he couldn't move. Not now. Not yet. And then he heard it - a long, low moan of - yes there was no mistaking - his name. 

"Jooohhhnnn".

Every cell in John's body lit up like a roman candle. _Christ, this couldn't be real._ John's breathing and heart-rate soared, he could hardly believe what he'd just heard. His body was moving of its own accord towards the sofa, he couldn't have stopped if he tried. 

And just as he reached the sofa, so that he could see the blissful rapture on his flatmate's face, Sherlock flicked open his eyes. 

 


End file.
